November 19, 2013

 

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At once, I am captivated by the text and pulled far away by the words. They come flowing in an unceasing river, dragging me with great force, further and further into the world of the writer. I feel her torments in the words, in how they are composed into phrases. It is like I am secretly listening to her thoughts. Short phrases, flashes of feelings, thoughts, memories all mixed up in an intense text filled with feeling. This is a passionate soul, tormented by strong feelings of fear, passion and love.

I notice how I read more and more quickly as is the text is increasing in intensity building up to an eruption or a release. However this never comes. I am left with this provoked lump of feelings transferred to me through the words. And I feel a compelling need to take a breath and sigh. The release that wasn’t given to me by the text.

Afterwards I can’t help myself thinking. How complicated we are. All of these feelings. And the power of the words. Do we really have words for every feeling?  I don’t think so. The nuances are lost and we stand left with an either you have the full feeling or you don’t.  I think the use of words differ with nationality and person. And that some of us use strong words sparingly and others throw them around sounding like they live on the edge of catastrophe every day.  I think that when a person who feels words like “hate” and “die” should be used only in extreme situations meets a person that “hates” and “dies” in every sentence there must be a misunderstanding.

Sofia Wollert Olsson

 

Essay: Hélène Cixous, ‘Coming to Writing’ in Hélène Cixous, Coming to Writing and Other Essays, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991.

2 Responses to “”

  1. aisacson Says:

    It’s an interesting thought that we use the language as some kind of costume, telling people what kind of person we are, or want to be. Not that we necessarily live different lives but just expressing them differently.

  2. Jordan Lane Says:

    You made me think of a song:

    “A Scale, A Mirror And Those Indifferent Clocks” – by Bright eyes.

    “And language just happened. It was never planned.
    And it’s inadequate to describe where I am
    in the room of my house where the light’s never been
    waiting for this day to end.”


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